Two
by babblefestival
Summary: Booth and Brennan race against time to find a serial killer. Based on Season One. Updated: Chapter 12.
1. Chapter 1

**Two  
**By Babblefestival 

The talk above the pit faded into silence after I unfolded the striped blanket from the second body. A cold sensation took point in my stomach as Zach photographed the small remains. Over the course of an evening, we had uncovered a child and an adult lying side by side at the four foot mark. Burial had been recent. The backfill had not had a chance to settle and the smell of putrifaction was unmistakable. Both victims were dressed and wrapped in synthetic fabric and the bones were intact. No predation except for insects. Given the minimal scatter, we would be able to do a full reconstruction at the lab.

"Bones?" Booth's bright red tie and blue shirt made him easy to spot amid the somber colors of the other law enforcers.

I ignored my protesting muscles and got to my feet. "A third possible," I said, momentarily distracted by his non-standard footwear. I hunched my shoulders in an effort to stretch discreetly. With one gloved hand, I indicated the untouched patch of dark soil to my right. "Decomposition stain." I tried not to dwell on how tiny it was. Speculation was not in my job description. "Did Mollie find anything else?" The question escaped my lips before I remembered the cadaver dog had already been sent away. Maybe I was more tired than I thought.

"No." Booth's voice was quiet. I didn't need to see his face to know he was thinking of his son.

With a deep breath and a final attempt to ease the kinks from my neck, I crouched down to begin my third retrieval of the evening. The sensation of being watched faded as I skimmed away the soil inch by inch. When my trowel met resistance, I switched to the stiff brush and carefully uncovered yet another blanket, this time a solid blue. The fabric yielded as I pulled at the edges. From somewhere above, someone inhaled sharply. I stared at the small pile of bones, momentarily confused by the configuration, then stretched a hand out towards the skull. A flurry of shutter clicks made me rock back on my heels instead. I waited for Zach to retake the photos properly with scale. "Done?" I couldn't blame him for thinking I had slipped up, but I appreciated the subtle intervention nonetheless.

"Details," he murmured in an apologetic reminder -- my own words of advice truncated into a single word.

I reached for the skull once more and traced its features lightly with one finger. "Feline," I said in explanation to Zach. Looking through a camera lens sometimes distorted the ability to process what you saw. I glanced up at the men lining the excavated hole. "Cat," I announced. A general sigh of relief rippled above my head. One child. One adult. Not a single victim more. Good news was always relative on a multiple.

I left the small pile undisturbed and began to screen the soil around it. We had recovered very little in the way of artifacts despite digging through four feet of strata, but one never knew for certain until the evidence was fully processed back at the lab. When I finished, I got to my feet and mentally ran through my checklist. We were almost through.

"Hey, Bones." Booth slid a backboard down beside the ladder. The small smile on his face was welcome relief from the grim expressions I saw all around me. A year of working together was rubbing off. He knew I was ready to move the remains.

"We'll make a squint of you yet," I murmured before I maneuvered the board into place beside the first victim. Once, she had been a caucasoid woman, thirty to thirty-five years of age, and a mother of children before her life was violently taken from her. Careful to leave the underlying soil undisturbed, Zach and I transferred the remains to a body bag, then looped polypropylene rope around the ends of the board. I had seen too many retrievals to care to watch as the men lifted the board out of the pit. Instead, I studied the second set of remains. Male. Judging from the number of primary teeth, I doubted he was older than three, but I wanted to see the x-rays before making any conclusions.

I was about to zip the bag over him when something unexpected caught my eye. Zach caught my frown and leaned in with me as I twisted the back of the shirt collar to expose a single, embroidered word.

Peter. The boy's name was Peter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two - Chapter 2**

The area between my shoulder blades burned and nothing I did seemed to make a difference. Years of experience told me that a migraine was inevitable. I opened the glove compartment and rifled through the med supplies I kept there. Wordlessly, Booth handed me a bottle of water as I popped a Tylenol. There was no denying he knew my routine as well as I did. Catching a whiff of decomposition, I cracked my window open and let the cool, night air wash over my face. Jumpsuits could only do so much. For the umpteenth time, I wondered how often the FBI cleaned the inside of their vehicles.

"Wong Foo's?" Booth looked like he needed a beer.

"Home." I wanted nothing more than a shower and bed.

"Come on, Bones." He was in his protective mode. "It's been a long night. You're tired and you need to eat." His hands shifted on the steering wheel. "You were working on two other bodies when I picked you up today, so I bet you missed lunch too."

"You're not my minder." I couldn't hide my irritation. Was I really that predictable?

"Hate to tell you this, Bones," said Booth as he made a left turn. "I've been your minder since day one."

Fatigue dulled my sense of outrage. "Whatever happened to being partners?"

"We are," he said. "Doesn't change the fact you're a squint and I'm the one carrying the gun."

"You mean, guns," I said. "And that's because you won't let me have one." Petulance was a bad sign. The man was right. I was hungry. Also smelly and sleepy. It was hard to prioritize it all.

"You're good on a shooting range," Booth said. "But knowing how to shoot a gun isn't the same thing as knowing when to shoot it. Besides, there's paperwork."

"Okay." I didn't have the energy to sustain my end of the conversation. It was an old argument anyway. Food, shower, bed. I checked my watch. Maybe he was right. Maybe I could make it through the list without falling down. "Okay," I said again.

"Look, you need fuel, I need fuel." Booth had missed my concession. "Tomorrow morning, we start sifting through the evidence." He shot me a sideways glance. "Bones, somebody left that car on purpose, as a message. For us. He's daring us to find him."

"Or her," I said, knowing the odds were against it.

"Or them." Booth acknowledged my point without taking his eyes off the road.

My irritation evaporated. The car, stolen three weeks ago from Colorado, had been parked like an arrow pointing towards the burial site. A child restraint seat lay on top of the overturned soil. The sight of it had galvanized the entire recovery team into a controlled and professional frenzy. The plates meant federal trumped local, making Booth site coordinator the moment he stepped out of the SUV. He had recognized the sheriff from a couple of workshops at Quantico and, together, they brought in all the equipment and manpower I asked for in record time. Not an easy task considering the remoteness of the location.

"Okay," I said again, louder this time. "Food first. But don't blame me if people get offended." I tipped my head back and closed my eyes. "I smell."

Booth said nothing as he drove us back to the city -- not as we reached familiar territory, nor even as he pulled into the restaurant parking lot. So when he removed the key from the ignition, turned towards me and leaned in close, abruptly without warning, I was taken by surprise. My field of vision was reduced to an intimate view of his shirt and tie, of the shadows on his neck as he buried his face in my hair. I had time to detect his cologne and feel the warmth of his skin reach out to mine before he pulled away. "What?" I found his action inexplicable.

"You don't smell," he said with a ghost of a smile. "Can we go eat now?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Two - Chapter 3**

I was running out of examination tables. Everywhere I looked, remains lay assembled from head to foot -- or some facimile thereof. The bulk of the lab was devoted to Jeffersonian work, slow track cases where time was not a relevant factor. Staff could afford to dwell on the scientific and to debate the merits of one test over another. It was here that the lab held true to the museum's mandate of research and education. But on the platform, my team worked the priority cases, cases that didn't usually involve the Jeffersonian at all. As the only forensic anthropologist in the region, reality dictated that my caseload be flexible. My work ranged from the academic to the politically sensitive to the horrific. There were days when I thought I worked for every acronym in the country and, as I watched Agents Gibson and Booth bound up the steps toward me, I realized today would be no exception.

A preemptive strike was in order. I slapped a dossier into Gibson's hands. "A statistical match. I'm satisfied that the remains are who they're supposed to be." The on-again, off-again nature of interagency cooperation always gave me a headache. I didn't know what Booth was allowed to know.

He flipped the folder open, his large frame sufficient to hide the contents from view. "You're certain?"

I wasn't in the mood to list my bonafides. "Absolutely. Dental alone was a complete match." I donned a set of gloves. Zach had already unzipped, cut and trimmed the body bag of the first victim.

Gibson gagged as the odor hit him.

Booth gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before joining me in my visual inspection of the remains. "The car's been cleaned," he said in an undertone. "We haven't been able to find a single print. Lab boys are pulling it apart right now. They might find something, but I'm not holding my breath."

"What about the second one?" Gibson asked from a safer distance. He waved the folder to get my attention. "Dr. Brennan?"

"I've got a team working on DNA identification," I said as I swept a lock of red hair away from the eye socket.

"No hits on missing toddlers named Peter or otherwise," said Booth. "We're tracing the child restraint seat."

It was hard to switch my focus back and forth between cases. "A few days more, Agent Gibson. The world won't fall apart in the meantime." I glanced up. "Right?"

Gibson looked aggrieved. "Right," he said with a sigh. "What do you recommend I say at the next briefing?"

I watched Hodgins as he cut the clothes away for analysis. A neat pile of red evidence bags was accumulating on a nearby desk. "Ask him how he would feel if this were his daughter and grandchild." I indicated where Zach was setting up the second set of remains. "I'll do what I can, but the DNA will come through for you in three days." I turned back to the table, my mind firmly fixed on the task ahead. "And I'm going to be busy." When I was sure Gibson was gone, I nudged Booth with one shoulder. "Why didn't you say something?"

He shrugged. "It's your turf." He smoothed his tie with one hand and held it against his chest as he leaned over the table. "I thought you said she was Caucasian. Her skin's dark."

"Skin's not a good indicator of race, not in cases like this. Too many things could have happened to change the pigmentation. Skin can go dark or it can go light. It's better to look at the skeletal structure." I narrowed my eyes. "But you already know that."

"Just making conversation," said Booth. He seemed fascinated by the victim's feet. "You referred to them as people, you know. I've never heard you do that before. A mother and her son." His eyes seemed to darken. "You have proof or were you speculating?"

"I was trying to make Gibson go away." I activated my voice recorder. "Based on initial cranial measurements, victim is a caucasoid female age thirty to thirty-five. Hair color appears red, but will be considered inconclusive until tests for dye are completed. Grooves on the pelvis indicate more than one birth. Initial indications of a single gunshot wound to the left temporal region." I reached behind her head and examined the surface by touch until I reconfirmed what I had discovered the night before. "Exit point appears to be in the occipital region." Booth backed out of the way as I circled the table. So far, I wasn't saying anything new. I pursed my lips while I gave my last notation some thought.

"What?" Booth recognized the signs.

"Not sure," I said. "Hodgins, you done?"

"It's going to be awhile. There's been a lot of traffic." He sealed and labelled another petri dish, and added it to his growing collection of insect fauna and particulates. "I'll let Zach know when I'm ready."

"Well, I'm ready," Zach said. He gave the skull a gentle caress. "I'll prepare her and her child for you, Dr. Brennan."

"Victims," I said, my tone sharp. Zach's tendency to personalize was his biggest weakness. "Objective inquiry requires you to lose your assumptions. Facts lead to conclusions, not the other way around. What I said to Agent Gibson was simply to hasten him on his way." I needed to knock the Madonna and child image out of his head.

Zach was only twenty-four. "Would you like to supervise, Dr. Brennan?" he asked, his words ample proof of his hurt.

I felt like I had kicked a puppy. I hadn't supervised his work in months. "That won't be necessary," I said, turning away. Next birthday, I intended to wish for people skills.

Booth was waiting against the metal railing. "There's nothing wrong with being compassionate," he said as I approached. "You know Zach's from a large family. He cares about people."

"And I don't?" My question came out sharper than I intended.

"You care too. Your way to deal is with distance. Usually."

"You do better science that way." Uncomfortable where our conversation was heading, I pulled a folder from a nearby stack and handed it over. "Here," I said. "Copies of our preliminary findings. Pre-lab analysis. Photos, site grid, notes. The soil analysis and stratification will be particularly important in this case, I think."

He held the folder without looking at it. "Why?"

"How was that burial pit dug out in the first place?" I could see he had been thinking about it. "Four feet deep. The original excavation was at least ten by ten. The first foot could've been dug out with a shovel. Maybe. If there was time and you were feeling ambitious. The soil's fairly granular up top, but after that? It's all clay-based, Booth. It would take forever to dig it all out unless you use --"

"A backhoe. The son of a bitch used a backhoe. Like we did." He flipped the folder open on the desk and pawed through the photos. "I've been wondering why you wouldn't let us excavate around the edges, why you and Zach did that yourselves, why you made the pit walls off limits except where you put the ladder." He found what he was looking for and laid out four photos in a rectangular grid. "Tell me what you see, Bones."

"Curving grooves and ridges in the wall."

"Where?" His untrained eye saw only dirt.

I picked up one of the photos and held it under a magnifying light. "Look at the changes in soil color." I traced a line with my finger.

"Hard to see," was his only comment.

"Soil is a big part of anthrolopology. Do enough digs, you get to recognize the subtleties."

"Takes practice. And?"

I held two photos side by side. "See how they run along opposite sides?" I exchanged the photos for the other two. "And on the other set of walls, distinctive teeth marks."

"Those I do see." He tapped the photo. "And that would be from the bucket."

"We haven't been able to do a comparison. We don't have a forensic database for construction vehicles."

"We do." He took ownership of the photos and closed the folder. "What else?"

"Zach found organic material embedded in those grooves. Topsoil and humus came down with each scoop."

"Meaning?" Booth's sudden intensity unnerved me.

"Hodgins thinks he can pinpoint the date of intrusion," I said as I edged away. "Burial," I added for Booth's benefit. "Might need an archaeologist for this one. Another thing, if there's material lodged in the pit walls, there's bound to be some lodged in the backhoe itself. You have to find the backhoe --"

"Before someone uses it again," he said.


	4. Chapter 4

**Two - Chapter 4**

The gym smelled of stale sweat and rubber mats. There were pockets of conversation among the agents working out. Booth avoided those, his focus entirely upon the punching bag. Mentally dividing the bag into anatomical zones, he struck the canvas with a flurry of fist and elbow blows. Head, ribs, groin. Any point of weakness was a legitimate target. He steadied the swaying bag, then launched into a series of side and frontal kicks designed to decimate his opponent. In the game of kill or be killed, there were no shades of grey and Booth played to win.

He braced his hands against the bag and absorbed its momentum. Took the moment to catch his breath. With the back of his hand, he wiped the sweat from his brow. An hour of running, a half hour with weights, another half with the punching bag. Staying fit seemed to take longer than he remembered, but the long workout made a difference after a fruitless day spent tracking down a phantom backhoe. He grabbed his towel from his gym bag and cleaned up the best he could. A quick glance at his watch told him he had enough time to shower, but not much more. He had to go pick up Parker for the weekend and Rebecca would not be happy if he was late.

His cell rang as he slid behind the wheel. With a half-muttered curse, he checked the incoming number. Bones. She knew better than to phone him on a Friday night, so her news could only mean another missed opportunity to be with his son. He flipped the phone open. "This better be good," he said.

"I'm sorry, Booth," she said. "It's bad."

"Bad enough to miss the weekend?"

"Yes."

"With Parker," he clarified.

Her sigh filled his ear. "Yes."

He stared at the long rows of cars around him in the parkade. What was he going to tell his son yet again?

"Booth?"

"Go." He started the car. "Details, Bones. Details."

"The two victims were related. Mother and son. We managed to get ID finally. Anna Wilson and John Wilson. The embroidered name was very misleading." She hesitated. "I saw the name and jumped to a conclusion without any substantiating facts."

Booth was in no mood to tease her. "Might be a nickname. Explains why it didn't trigger a hit. Doesn't explain why we got nothing from missing persons for either one of them. A mother and child. Didn't s omeone notice they were gone?" He navigated the endless curving ramps to the exit.

"I don't know. We got the ID through a medical database. The male victim was part of a drug trial for severe allergies," she said. "I can't hypothesize why no one reported them missing. I can only deal with the facts at hand."

"Got an address?" Booth didn't want to get into another argument about speculation or, heaven forbid, his feminine side.

"Denver."

"Same city for both the car and the victims." A quick shoulder check and he merged seamlessly into the evening traffic.

"We've confirmed the female victim died of a single gun shot to her head. A small caliber. Twenty-two. No other injuries. Nothing showed up on the toxicology tests."

"And the boy?" In his mind's eye, he saw his son at that age.

"Also negative for toxins," she said. "Traces of the trial drug, Isocolar, but that's to be expected."

"Cause of death?"

"He was shaken. Violently, over and over. We found handprint bruises around the shoulders. Width of the grasp and thickness of fingers indicate an adult male."

His grip on the steering wheel tightened. "And?"

"There were ligature marks around their wrists and ankles."

"They were tied up."

"For a significant amount of time, based on the bruising we saw when we scanned the skin."

"What's significant?"

"Four days."

It took a few deep breaths to dispel the mental images. "Bones, this could've waited until Monday." There was still time to pick up his son, time to salvage his weekend of being a father and time to forget about tiny decomposed bodies for a while. If he turned left at the next traffic light, he could be at Rebecca's in twenty minutes. "You know we take turns working weekends. Someone's manning this case for me. Unless there's something time sensitive, I get to go home this weekend."

"I'm sorry," said Brennan. "But Agent First phoned me."

First was not his favorite colleague. Too damn ambitious for Booth's liking. "Why? He could've called me," he said before realization hit. He swerved across three lanes to the right, deaf to the horns blaring all around him.

"I don't know. Weren't you already off-duty by then?" She sounded mildly confused. "Or were you asking me what he had to say?"

"Why am I cancelling my weekend, Bones?" He was already on his way to the Jeffersonian.

"You got a hit on that alert you set up. A mother and child were reported missing this afternoon. In Denver. The child's two years old."

"A serial." He forced his anger away. "Waiting period to report is twenty-four hours. If it's the same MO, he'll drive them out of state in a stolen car."

"No way to know where he'll take them or when," said Brennan. "If it's the same person. Might be a coincidence, Booth. Serials don't usually have multiple victims at a time."

"One at a time is more their thing," said Booth. "I know, but this guy's different. He's daring us, thinks he's smart enough to get away with it."

"They have three more days before they'll be killed, if you're right."

"I'm right," he said. "What I want to know is where he keeps them for the four days."

"Assuming that's part of the pattern."

"I'm assuming. Bones, don't argue," he said, sensing her scepticism. "We're going to Denver."

"Now?"

"I'll pick you up." He knew she kept a travel bag ready in her office. His was in the trunk.

"He could already be here. If here is part of the pattern."

"It's a short flight. We have to start somewhere." He braced himself for his next call. Rebecca was going to give him hell.

"I'm sorry, Booth."

"Me too." He missed Parker already.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes:** This chapter felt like a warm up, practice session. I'd left this thing for too long and it was hard to get back into the swing of things. It's not as descriptive as I would like, so I might rework it. Or maybe leave it for what it is... a rough transition back into this story. I think it gets the job done. If I do change it, I'll let you know in my notes for the next chapter.

* * *

**Two  
****Chapter 5**

Booth worked his cell phone the moment we entered the front room of my business suite -- a corner suite with two walls of expansive windows. Although his was the next one over, we decided this time to work in mine. I removed the case folders from my bag and dropped them on the conference table in the front room. By the time the coffee and fruit tray arrived, he was in the midst of his third phone call.

"I know it's almost midnight, Mr. Brown," he said. "But Janice Langford and her son are missing. Their lives may be at stake. Is a good night's sleep worth that risk?" He drummed his pen quietly against the edge of his notebook. "Thank you. Now when was the last time you saw Ms. Langford?" He began to write.

The fax machine kicked to life, spitting out page after page of the police report filed earlier. Whoever had sent it had taken the trouble to use a good photocopier. Image resolution remained high. The photos were worth studying closely. When Booth ended his call, I held up Langford's portrait along with Wilson's. "Similar features," I said.

He took the two images from me. "Similar? Bones, they're practically twins."

"Both have one child. A son under the age of three. Neither woman is married." I watched as he brooded over the photos. "Langford colored her hair red. She's naturally a blond." I handed him the rest of the faxed papers.

He skimmed the report with practiced efficiency. "No divorce here either." His pacing was a bad sign. "But nothing else matches. Wilson was a business manager with a Fortune 500 company. Langford barely clears the poverty level. They're worlds apart." He ended up at the window and stared out into the night.

"Seems unlikely they'd have anything else in common," I said.

"That we know of," said Booth. His reflected face was somber.

"Could be their appearance and the age of their sons are the only things linking them together." I wrapped my arms around myself. "And the fact they're from Denver."

"How many red haired, single women with toddler-aged sons can there be in this city," he murmured. The glass towers beyond twinkled with apparent cheer and beauty, unaware.

"Can't we issue a news bulletin to warn them?" My question escaped me despite my knowledge of the answer.

"We don't officially have a serial killer," he said. "FBI doesn't declare something like that until there's incontrovertible evidence. Such as more victims. Which we don't have yet."

I heard his _Thank God_ as clearly as if he had spoken.

"We're here on your dime, Bones." A deep breath. "Thanks for that."

"The Jeffersonian's dime," I corrected him. I hated the disparity in our spending power. "I have broad, discretionary spending powers in pursuit of knowledge and justice." I saw his lips quirk.

"That sounds like something you've memorized."

"I negotiated the clause myself when I signed up to work there."

"Sweet deal," he said, joining me at the table. He poured himself a coffee and, at my nod, refreshed mine.

"You should've seen Stanford's." His faint smile was worth the effort.

"No midnight conferences for you if you'd gone there," he said. He practically inhaled his entire cup.

"Fewer murders," I agreed. "But probably more mass graves." My turn to stare out the window. "At least with you, there's a chance to catch the killers. Even when there's a deadline."

"We _think _we have a deadline," he said.

"We're working in terms of days, Booth. Not years, not decades after the fact. I know you want to stop Langford and her son from being killed --"

"But history shows it takes at least four murders sequentially before a clear pattern emerges." He picked at the grapes without eating them. "I know the drill, Bones. The FBI has the market cornered on profiling. But maybe this time, just once, I can break the pattern early."

"I'd like to help you with that," I said, deliberately echoing my offer from our first case as partners.

His gaze met mine. "Yeah," he said finally. "Okay."

I reached for his notebook and tried to make sense of the scribbled data. "So Langford left work an hour early yesterday," I managed to interpret.

"Doctor's appointment for her kid."

"Does she have insurance for that?"

"Probably not. Her boss says she mentioned a walk-in clinic near her place." He nodded at my laptop. "How's internet here?"

"Good," I said, taking the hint. I launched the browser.

"578 Townsend Road," he said, checking the report.

"Got it," I said. "Madison Medical Clinic is three blocks from there."

Booth flipped open the yellow pages and thumbed through the pages. "Madison, Madison," he murmured. "Here it is. Doctors Singh and Keller." He switched to the residential section, reached for his notepad and jotted a few numbers down.

"It's past midnight," I said for no particular reason.

He keyed in the first number into his cell phone. "Frankly, Dr. Brennan, I don't give a damn."

"Gone With the Wind," I said with quiet triumph. "I've seen that."

A real smile this time. His good humor vanished in the next instant. "This is Agent Booth with the FBI. Is this Dr. Singh?"

Experience told me the night would drag on. He had his questions to keep him awake. My work would come later. I closed the door to the conference room and settled into my bed. One of us had to be alert in the morning.


	6. Chapter 6

**Two  
Chapter 6**

The house was tiny, one door and two small windows wide. Weeds dominated the lawn and the crumbling walkway. Long strips of paint curled away from the wooden siding and a bright blue tarp covered the front half of the roof. I eyed the bricks weighing down the vinyl sheet with some trepidation. Death by falling object was not on my agenda this morning.

"No yellow tape," I noted as I got out of the car.

"Not a crime scene," said Booth. "You can learn a lot by visiting a person's home and we've run out of leads." He caught my look of doubt. "Don't worry, Bones. Leave this part to me." He rounded the trunk of the car. "Singh said she brought Jordan in for a regular appointment at four-thirty. As far as I can tell, that was the last time anyone saw her and her son."

The hems of my jeans were wet with dew by the time Booth and I climbed the front steps and reached the door. I stepped carefully around the rotted planks as he rang the doorbell. "I think it's broken," I said. I peered through one of the windows but saw nothing past the striped bedsheet covering the glass.

"Imagine raising a kid here," said Booth. He opened the screen door and reached for the knob. He shook it gently. It waggled about with alarming ease.

"Wouldn't we be breaking and entering?" I noted a generous terra cotta pot of geraniums at the far edge of the porch. Their red blossoms provided the only cheer I had seen since pulling up to the curve in our rented car. I pointed it out to Booth. "She's not thinking poor," I said.

The door swung open. "Hello," Booth called out as he stepped over the threshold.

"You broke the lock," I said, following him in.

"If anyone asks, it was already open." It took no time to move throughout the house. A single room encompassed the living room and kitchen. There was one bathroom and one bedroom containing a double bed and a converted crib. The furniture was sparse but color coordinated. Langford had decorated on a dime and had somehow created a warm, welcoming effect. I ran a finger along the countertop and showed the dust to Booth. "She would've kept this place clean."

"That's about two month's worth," said Booth. "But she was at work two days ago. Where has she been living?"

His observation, accurate as it was, surprised me until I remembered his past. "I used to hate coming back from a long trip," I said. "Too much cleaning."

"Try having a house," said Booth with a nod to the surroundings. "Landlord probably hasn't been around in years except to collect the rent. I wonder why she didn't rent an apartment instead.

I pulled a makeshift curtain aside and stared at the backyard. "This is why," I said quietly. I shifted over for Booth to see.

He whistled softly and opened the back door.

If the front appeared sorrowful and unkempt, the back was a profusion of color and joy. Toy vehicles lined the wall under the eaves. Langford had tamped down slabs of hewn stone and had, at one time, coaxed grass to grow in the cracks between. An old bistro set had been lovingly reclaimed with paint and several pots of geraniums defined the edge of the stone patio. Broad, green leaves spilled over the edges in defiance of their neglect.

"We've got to find her," said Booth. "And Jordan too." He walked around the border of the tiny yard and rapped a knuckle against the wooden fence. "Needs a good coat of stain," he said, "but it's still in good shape. I wonder who's been taking care of it?" He stopped short beneath the lone tree. "Bones."

An all too familiar chill ran down my spine at his tone. I pulled on a set of gloves and crouched beside the site of interest. Dark soil. Too dark. Especially when the rest of the yard was parched and dry. I crumbled a handful through my fingers and noted the white flecks. Adipocere. I felt far away as I looked up at Booth's face.

"Damn." He pulled out his cell and walked away.

I stared at the geraniums and the plastic toys, the bistro set and the stone mosaic set in the ground. I stared at the soil sample in my hand and let it fall to the ground. As I wiped my hands clean, I tried not to think who, what it was I was brushing away. It had been a mistake to imagine how the victim lived. I had disobeyed my sternest rule.

When Booth returned, he handed me my equipment bag without a word.

Taking a deep breath, I visualized the yard as a grid. The Jeffersonian supplied me with the latest technology and I pinpointed the exact location of the site by GPS. I lingered over the photography, triple checked my angles, before beginning the actual dig. It was always painstaking work troweling away the many shallow layers of soil.

The arrival of the local authorities brought with it additional manpower and supplies from the coroner's office. Dr. Hansen recognized me from a conference and he willingly took the role as my assistant. "Skin, it's mine," he said. "Bone, it's yours."

"Of course," I said. It was a pointless agreement. Soil never lied.

"FBI," he said, giving Booth a quick glance. "Serial?"

I probed the ground slowly with a metal rod and felt solid resistance. "Found something."

"Flesh?"

"No." I switched to the brush and uncovered the first glint of color. Confirmation of what I already knew.

"Bone," said Hansen. "My office is yours for the duration."

I stared at the soil after we removed the entire set of remains. "I don't think we're done here," I said.

"God," said Hansen. "I hate multiples."

Careful excavation revealed a smaller set of bones. Toddler-sized.

"God," said Hansen again, this time like a prayer. "A kid."

"Another victim," I said and processed the soil and the remains as efficiently as possible. My back ached when I struggled to my feet.

"Bones?" Booth hauled me up for the remaining distance.

I did my usual routine of stretches and winced at the knot between my shoulder blades. "Dental records?"

"Already at the coroner's," said Booth. "Bones, you need a break."

"Like you got last night?" My voice was sharp.

In the end, identifying the remains was a simple and quick process. X-rays of the teeth revealed a match for both Janice Langford and her son.

"Hansen's sending them to the Jeffersonian," I said to Booth. "We'll know more then."

"How can they be a bunch of bones? In two days?"

"I'll know for sure when we finish processing the remains," I said.

"How long have they been dead?" He was too calm for my liking. "Couldn't be more than two days. That's when she took her kid to the doctor's."

"I don't know, Booth." The paradox was beyond me at the moment. I needed my lab. "Hodgins can give us a more precise timeline."

"Bones," he said. "I need to know now."

"I can't tell you what I don't know. From the state of their remains, I'd say a month at least."

"Nothing about this makes any sense," he said. "Burial at her own home. Not the same pattern as for Wilson. What's changed?"

"Booth," I said. "What if it's not the same killer?"

"There's still a strong enough link between the two incidents," he said. "I'm not ready to give this up."

"I have to go back." The mystery was bothering me.

"You go," he said at last. "I'm going to go talk to Singh and Brown in person."

I sensed no satisfaction at the prospect.


	7. Chapter 7

**Two  
Chapter 7**

I was no closer to understanding the paradox than I was in Denver. Hodgin's report, Zach's analysis and Angela's facial reconstruction all pointed to the same conclusion. The remains were indeed Janice Langford and her son Jordan. Both died two months ago from the same injuries inflicted on the Wilsons. I held an x-ray up to the light.

"I don't think it's changed since the last time you looked at it," said Angela. She came into my office and flopped into the chair across from my desk.

"I know." I slid the film back into the envelope, sealed it and signed across the flap. "Science can't lie. But Langford was at work three days ago. She took her son to the doctor's the same day. How can that be true when they were already dead?"

Angela's nose crinkled as she considered my dilemma. "Can I vote for zombies?"

"Ange." I gave her a look.

"Then imposters are definitely the way to go," she said. "Maybe plastic surgery."

"For Wilson, maybe. But for Langford? She worked part-time as a waitress."

"Why part-time? Wouldn't she need all the money she could earn for her son?"

I sorted through the paperwork until I found Booth's report on his phone conversations with Brown. "Her boss offered her extra shifts but she turned down too many. He said she was unreliable that way, so he stopped asking."

Angela frowned at me. "That takes care of why, but not _why_, if you know what I mean."

I shook my head. "Brown didn't know why she was inconsistent about accepting extra shifts."

"How'd Booth take it when you told him?"

"What do you think?" As if on cue, my cell phone rang. "Brennan," I said.

"Bones," said Booth. "You're sure, you're absolutely sure those two bodies we found were the Langfords."

"Yes, Booth, I'm sure." Angela watched me closely as I spoke.

"And your team pegs their T.O.D. as two months ago?"

"Based on the detritus, insect casings --" I had faxed him the report over an hour ago.

"Two months." His sigh filled my ears. "Bones, I've got Singh and Brown in for questioning at the local bureau office."

"Why?"

"Because someone's lying big time, that's why. Maybe a couple of someones."

"You think Singh and Brown are involved?"

"Well, unless you're wrong -"

"I'm not." I knew our work would past muster with the most stringent of peer reviews.

"Then they're in on it somehow."

"It's almost as if we're talking about two different people," I said. "Booth?" He had hung up.

He rang back a few minutes later. "A rookie mistake. I don't know what the hell I was thinking."

"What mistake?" I had never heard him angry at himself before.

"Showed them the photos. They'd never seen Langford before." He made an explosive sound of exasperation. "Can Angela do her thing over the phone? From the conference room?"

I relayed his question.

"I'll have them hook up from here to there," he said when I confirmed her answer. At my nod, Angela left without further delay.

"She's on her way," I said.

"Hang on." I heard him instruct someone nearby. "Bones?"

"Still here."

"I deserve to be demoted."

Uncertainty kept me silent. Empathy was not one of my strong points.

"If you hadn't said what you said --"

"I've done that," I said with sudden insight.

"What?"

"I once identified a set of remains incorrectly. I made an assumption." The incident had defined my career. "I had to go back to the family later and tell them I was wrong, that their daughter really was dead. They were so angry, Booth. So angry and upset." My memories of the moment remained crystal clear. "I delayed the investigation by a month. At least here we've lost a day at most."

I could almost hear him thinking. "Thanks for that," he said finally. He cleared his throat. "Have Angela fax me the images when she's done."

"Won't they expect you back at the office tomorrow?"

"Fraudulent identities, double homicide, a possible serial involving children? I think I can make the case for staying in Denver a little longer. What about you?"

"My regular work," I said. Like Booth, I had gone to Denver on my own time. Down the hall, I could hear the murmur of Angela's voice as she pieced together a face for Booth to pursue. "What are you going to do?"

"Find out who's been impersonating the Langfords and why."

"Luck," I said. The twists and turns of this case were not promising.

"Maybe I won't have any more remains to send your way."

"Maybe you're wrong and it's not a serial," I said without optimism.

"I'm not wrong," he said.

"How do you know?"

"Because I can feel it with my gut."

"I'll be here," I said.

"I know, Bones."

I sat there for a long time afterwards, overwhelmed by the horror of human nature gone awry. Gone were my objectivity and distance. I had lost them amid the faded hopes of a little backyard filled with toys and neglected flower pots.

"Dr. Brennan?" It was Zach.

Adrift in memories, it was all I could do to look at him.

He came in, his face filled with apparent concern. "Dr. Brennan? Are you okay?"

I managed to chase away my thoughts with a deep, cleansing breath. "I'm fine," I said.

He seemed less than convinced. "There's a Dr. Kellar wanting to see you. He's from John Hopkins."

"What kind of doctor?"

"Medical. Pediatrics," replied Zach. "With the Department of Medicine. He's in Dr. Goodman's office."

"Why didn't Goodman page me?"

"He did." Zach hovered nearby as I stood. "You didn't answer. He sent me to find out why." He hesitated. "I think I can guess."

"Don't guess," I said as I headed out.

"Focus on the details," he called out. "Helps keep distance." It was good advice. Mine, to be exact.

I was not certain I could follow it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Two  
Chapter 8**

Booth allowed the silence in the interrogation room to build. Not many people, unless properly trained, knew how to withstand such moments. Singh was no exception.

"I don't understand what I'm still doing here," the doctor said after only a few minutes. He was a slight man, slender of form but hefty in intellect. Records showed he had a Ph.D. as well as his medical degree. "I gave you a description of the woman I knew as Janice Langford," he added. "You have the drawing of her right there in front of you along with one of her son." He ran a hand through his wavy hair. "Or at least, the boy I've been treating."

"How long has he been your patient?"

"Not long," said Singh. "About four months."

"Her boss said she was taking him in for a regular appointment." Booth made a show of checking his notes. With his peripheral vision, he could see the doctor fidgeting. "Four months isn't long enough to have regular appointments, is it?"

"Children get sick, Agent Booth." Impatient. Imperious. "They often come in more than the required once a year checkup."

"What identification did she give when she first came in?"

"You'd have to talk to our receptionist."

"I will. I'm asking you the question anyway." Patience and repetition often wore down the most resistant of people.

"All new clients are required to provide proof of residence and payment up front."

"That's it?" Interrogation was an art remarkably like fishing. The process could not be rushed.

Singh regarded him through steepled fingers. "It's a walk-in clinic in a low income neighborhood. No insurance, often no driver's license. It's amazing how many people can barely afford to eat yet have access to cable TV. Says a lot about our society, don't you think?"

"I think the library asks for more ID than you do."

"Dr. Keller and I provide medical services for people who can't afford to have an HMO. Our rates are fair." It seemed a familiar recitation. Obviously, Singh had faced criticism before. "We even waive our fees if we think the situation merits it. Relatively speaking, of course."

Booth had seen the man's income tax statements. "And yet you manage to clear a comfortable living."

"We do consulting work as well."

"What kind?"

Singh drew back from the table, almost pushing away at the edge with one hand. "Do I need an attorney?"

"I don't know," said Booth. "Do you think you need one?"

"No. But I'm not comfortable with your line of questioning. I treated the boy after which he left with his mother. Or the woman pretending to be his mother." Singh shook his head. "I don't see what I do for a living as relevant."

"What were you treating the boy for?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I said --"

"Agent Booth." Condescension this time. "You know as well as I do that patient files are confidential. Since you've established that the child I've been treating is not Jordan Langford, he is therefore not a victim of a violent crime."

"And therefore, you don't have to give me his file." It was a painless concession to make. Booth had already known the answer. "But you can tell me how many regular visits there were in the last four months."

"Four," said the doctor.

"How frequently?"

"I just told you."

"I mean how far apart were the appointments? A day, a week --"

"A month." Singh managed to make his cooperation seem like a favor.

"Each month? Around the same time?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I told you --"

"Doctor, so far I have two dead women and two dead children. I have another woman and child impersonating two of the victims. There are enough similarities in appearance and age that I have reason to believe they may also become victims, if they aren't already." Booth allowed his anger to surface briefly.

"I'm not permitted to tell you anything medical."

"Even if it might save their lives? You know I could easily subpoena you for the information but that would take time. Time they might not have."

"I don't see how the boy's treatment could affect your investigation."

"You're right," said Booth with sudden alacrity. "Neither do I. Doctor, when you're trying to make a diagnosis, what do you do?"

"Ask questions." He seemed wary.

"What kind?"

"Anything and everything," said Singh. "I start with the obvious. Symptoms, timeline, that sort of thing. If it's still unclear, I start asking about routines and environment, about anything different that may have happened."

"How do your patients feel about it?"

"They sometimes wonder why I'm asking." Understanding flooded Singh's face. "Your technique also." He gave a single nod of approval. "I see."

Booth waited.

The doctor appeared to come to a decision. "Allergies," he said. "All too common these days, I'm afraid. We were trying to determine a cause."

"Isn't that a job for an allergist?" Booth was familiar with the process. His own son used to have a reaction to eggs.

"If you have insurance. It's a tricky thing, allergies. They usually appear in one form or another when children are young."

"Which they can outgrow."

"Unless they manifest a slew of symptoms," said Singh. "As did this boy. Potentially severe reactions to an entire range of objects and environments."

"Such as?"

"A simple trip to the grocery store would be a nightmare. He couldn't touch any of the produce or other people."

"That's pretty extreme."

"Yes," said the doctor. He leaned forward, his medical curiosity evident. "This woman must've been the boy's mother. She was always frightened for what might happen to him. Odd woman though."

"How so?"

"Frightened of everything. Startled by the smallest thing. She practically whispered when she talked. As if she shouldn't be talking at all." Singh regarded the mirror and waved once. "Am I being recorded?"

"And the boy?"

"Quiet. Withdrawn, but I'm no psychiatrist. Always flinched when I touched him but he never stirred up a fuss about it."

"Physical abuse, you think?"

Singh pressed a single digit to the side of his nose as he thought. "No bruises," he said finally. "No injuries. At least none I had to treat him for. I would've reported them if I'd seen any. But we're not the only clinic in the city."

"It would help if we had his medical records," said Booth. "Do I still need to talk to a judge?"

"I guess not," said Singh. "You've convinced me. I'd only delay the inevitable anyway." He pulled out his cell. "May I?" A few brief words, he put the phone away again. "I've told my receptionist to make the file available. Should she courier it?"

"No, that won't be necessary. An agent will be there soon." There was a fast double rap on the door, the agreed upon signal. Booth checked his watch. An hour ahead of schedule. He had beaten the subpoena process once again. "By the way," he said after they shook hands and Singh rose to go. "What kind of consulting work do you do, Doctor?"

"Mostly pharmaceutical," replied Singh.

"Sit down," said Booth.


	9. Chapter 9

**Two  
Chapter 9**

Dr. Kellar was a doctor disguised as a political statesman. From his expensively tailored suit to the glint of his Rolex to the shine of his shoes, he oozed of money and of privilege. If I were Booth, I would have disliked him on sight. He rose with studied grace from the Louis XV chair as I entered the room.

"Ah, Dr. Brennan," said Goodman. As far as I could tell, he was in good cheer. "This is Dr. Kellar of John Hopkins."

I opted to pass on the usual sharing of bonafides and held out my hand. "So my assistant tells me. Welcome to the Jeffersonian." I did not missed the warning in Goodman's eyes. Funding was somehow involved and I wished suddenly to be back in Denver. Kellar's grip was comfortable, but lingered a little too long to qualify as good manners. I pulled my hand away and took the other visitor's chair.

"A pleasure to meet you at last, Dr. Brennan," he said. He remained standing and stared down at me.

Several theories about dominant posturing sprang to mind as did the impulse to kick the man in the knee. I entertained my own doubts about the wedding band featured prominently on his finger.

"I've enjoyed reading your books," he continued, taking his seat in time. Despite his age, his choice of clothing was on the leading cusp. A pale blue, pinstriped shirt paired with a patterned silk tie. I had learned a lot about men's clothing since working with Booth. I looked Kellar square in the eyes and mentally dared him to look me elsewhere.

Luckily for him, he did not. He gave me a tight smile and tapped the arm of his chair instead.

"Dr. Kellar is here to discuss your current case," said Goodman, after clearing his throat. "The Wilson case."

Not about money but a courtesy call. "What about it," I said curtly. The need for politeness gone, I could be myself.

"You queried our database," he said.

"Standard practice when trying to identify a child. All medical databases are linked and available to the FBI."

"It's not standard for us." He slid back into his statesman persona. "You have to understand. We're nearing the end of our longitudinal study. It's a crucial time for us."

"In what way?"

"We're close to getting FDA approval for Isocolar."

"The allergy treatment." Earlier, I had Hodgins examine the molecular structure for me. "It looks quite promising."

"Not an ordinary allergy treatment." Kellar seemed offended by the notion. "We've been able to duplicate our findings with great success."

"In my experience, great success in a drug trial is something to be suspicious of." I ignored Goodman as he cleared his throat again. "What are the side effects?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"There are always side effects, Doctor. What are they?"

He sniffed with obvious disdain. "Nothing significant. That's what makes this such a good treatment."

"It's unusual to have FDA approval lined up before completion of a study."

"It's longitudinal," he reminded me. "We've spent five years testing it. Two years for human trials."

"So it's safe."

"Perfectly so, I assure you."

"Safe for what ages?"

"All." Pride was written on his face. "As the lead investigator, I can tell you I've never seen the like in all my years as a medical researcher. The potential is endless."

"Adolescent?"

"Yes."

"Child?"

"Yes."

"Toddler?"

He made an impatient gesture. "Obviously. The Wilson boy was on it."

"John," I corrected. "Infants? Male, female?"

"Yes, Dr. Brennan. When I say all, I mean all. But this isn't why I came."

"No, I wouldn't think so," I said. Goodman's silence was permission to proceed. "Why did you come, Doctor?"

"Because you queried our database. We're about to get FDA approval, after which we plan to go public."

"And?"

"We need to know if we have a problem. We need to know why you accessed our database."

I leaned back. "I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say."

"What?" He whipped out of his chair and glared at me, then at Goodman. "Why not?"

"Because, Dr. Kellar, we're in the middle of a criminal investigation." I rose to my feet as well. "I'm sure you can imagine reasons for our interest. I am a forensic anthropologist, after all."

"Obviously, Wilson is dead," said Kellar, impatient. "It's the how I'm concerned about."

"And why is that?" I matched his glare head on, height difference be damned.

"I'm sure he met with nefarious ends, given your involvement. But in the hands of the media, his death could be construed as being connected with our company. Because of the Isocolar."

"And that would be unfortunate."

"It would deprive children suffering from extreme allergies of a guaranteed treatment."

"Aren't you with John Hopkins?" I found myself emulating Booth's style of questioning.

"I am." Puzzlement was on his face.

"Connected with what company?"

"Sorry?"

"You said 'connected with our company', Doctor. What company? And what is your position there?"

"There's nothing unusual about forming an umbrella company for research. Most universities allow their staff to benefit financially from research. Indeed, they encourage it to attract the brightest and the best to their campuses." He was on the verge of bolting in the guise of indignation.

"I understand." Aware a different strategy was needed, I indicated his chair and in doing so, glanced away to concede our staring contest. "Please," I said and gestured once more. He was a dominant personality, alpha in his field. He needed the choice to appear to be his. It bothered me to do so, but I sat down.

After a moment's hesitation, he sank into the chair, his agitation visibly receeding. "I'm sorry, Doctor," he said. "But you seemed quite accusatory."

"Universities always form corporate partnerships. Even here at the Jeffersonian, we're permitted to patent our own discoveries or inventions," I acknowledged.

"A share of which goes to the museum for providing the time and the means," said Goodman, covering his surprise at my concession. He had recovered by the time Kellar glanced his way.

I crossed my legs and leaned forward. My necklace dangled with a familiar weight. "I imagine it's difficult to get a new drug from theory to reality." Although it cost me, I smiled.

"Parameda Pharmaceuticals," said Kellar, somewhat mollified. "Part of my deal there includes a significant stock holding."

"One of the largest pharmaceuticals," I noted. "And your umbrella company?"

"To expedite the three-way partnership, I incorporated in the form of RPK Medical." He grimaced. "My wife's idea. Our two children's first initials."

"Interest in your work must be high," I said. "As you said, it seems to have enormous potential."

"Allergies are on the uprise," said Kellar. "More prevalent, more severe. Perhaps environmental." His suit moved like skin as he shrugged. "Either we find a solution or we face the prospect of a generation of children in bubble suits. The projected numbers are astonishing."

"How did you find subjects for your trials?" It was difficult to remain civil given how thoroughly he was staring at me, but the thought of geraniums kept me in my seat.

"Most came recommended by their doctors. Ms. Wilson heard about our work through a lawyer friend who had helped set up the initial paperwork. She requested her son be added to the trials. She was very specific that he not be placed in the placebo group."

"And you agreed?" At his nod, I frowned. "Doesn't that..." I hunted for more neutral phrasing. "Isn't that unusual for research protocol?"

His cough was surprisingly delicate for such a big man. "We kept his data outside of the research pool."

"You were being most charitable, Doctor." I managed to keep the sarcasm from my voice. Goodman sent a sharp glance my way.

Kellar leaned towards me and invaded my personal space. "To be quite frank, Ms. Wilson made a sizable and, I might add, tax deductible donation to the university. The Dean asked me to include the boy. As it had nothing to do with the final outcome, I was happy to oblige." He seemed pleased with himself. "I made it my policy to know each of the subjects by name. Such young children, after all. Frightening to come to a lab and receive regular shots."

"So there's a series," I said.

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Four. Each taken once a month." Encouraged by my smile, he proceeded to explain. "Booster shots. Too many, the Isocolar is rendered ineffective. Too few, the same result. It's imperative that the timeline be preserved."

"Oh? Why so specific?"

Another shrug. "A few minor side effects were noted."

His phrasing inflamed my curiosity. "I'd like to see the report."

"I believe it will be made public in any case," said Goodman diplomatically. "Particularly since you're about to get FDA approval. One of my daughters has allergies. I wouldn't mind learning more about Isocolar."

"I can't see any problem with that," said Kellar after a few moments of reflection. "I'll have my people courier you a copy."

"The research report," I emphasized. When Goodman shook his head at me, I softened my request with yet another smile. "I have a hard time with company information packets. I find the terminology to be too imprecise."

His laugh was low and practiced. "I understand perfectly. Lunch perhaps? In case you have any questions? I'll be in the area for a few days longer."

It hurt to smile at him again, but I managed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Two  
Chapter 10**

I forgot it was Sunday. My entire team had given up their weekend without protest. Goodman came and went without a murmur. With a child's life potentially at stake, such generosity of spirit could make a difference. That was my hope as I sifted through the endless pages of interviews that some nameless agent at the FBI had compiled. Brown, Singh and Keller. Line after line of black squiggles. I didn't know when I fell asleep or even that I did, until Booth shook me awake again.

"Hey, Bones." Dark circles were forming under his eyes. The stubble on his face hinted at a rushed flight back. Jeans and a dark blue t-shirt with a logo I didn't recognize. "I thought you were doing your regular work."

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and pushed myself upright. "I am." I swung my feet to the ground.

He picked up a sheet of paper. "I thought you'd be at home."

"Then why come here?" I needed to get better throw cushions. My neck ached. I rubbed away the dried saliva from the edge of my mouth. Such was life.

He shoved reports aside and dropped onto the other end of the couch. With a groan, he planted his feet on the coffee table and leaned his head back, his eyes closed. "I didn't see the light on at your place, so I figured you were here."

"So either way, you would've woken me up."

"Yeah." The word was a sigh.

"You should've gone home. There's no proof that woman or her child are in any danger."

"Which is why you're not at home sleeping," he murmured. "What are the odds?"

"Of me being here?"

A mild huff of amusement. "One hundred percent." Another groan. "Between the other agents and me, we phoned every walk-in clinic in Denver. Do you know how many there are in a city that size?"

I took the question to be rhetorical and headed for the coffee maker instead. A trial sip told me the leftover liquid was beyond rescuing. I dumped it out and started a new batch. Within seconds, the sound of percolating caffeine filled the air.

Booth's nose twitched as he caught the scent. "I'm almost too caffeinated for that, Bones." He sat upright and dropped his feet back to the ground, then bent forward, his elbows on his knees, hands dangling, head and shoulders bowed. "I'm practically pure coffee." He shook his head several times, rapidly.

I retrieved the transcript of his interview with Singh. "Booth, about the doctor."

"Which one? Keller or Singh?"

"Singh." I flipped through the pages until I found the relevant passage. "The boy he thought was Jordan Langford. He saw him four times in four months. The appointments were equally spaced apart."

"Like clockwork," said Booth. "For allergies."

"Today I had a visit from the lead medical investigator for the drug Isocolar."

It took Booth a few seconds to make the connection. "John Wilson was a part of that."

I sat crosslegged on the floor. "Turns out Isocolar has to be given at precise monthly intervals."

"Let me guess," he said, his eyes suddenly alert. "Four times."

"Yes. But according to Singh's notations, there's no record of the drug being given. It says he prescribed regular allergy shots."

"What's typical?"

"Allergy shots aren't medication, Booth. They're a purified form of the allergen, of whatever it is that's causing the allergic reaction. It takes years to build up an immunity, not months, and there's about a fifty percent chance it'll work. And you don't normally give them to toddlers. Four or five is usually when you start."

"What's the Isocolar then?"

"It's a compound that's been designed from the atom up. Kellar probably got that idea from cancer research. The molecule fits to the allergen and neutralizes it, enhances the immune system and prevents the allergic reaction from happening."

"Sounds like a miracle drug." He got himself a cup of coffee and handed me one as he came back. "Wait a minute. Who are we talking about?"

"Robert Kellar," I said. "Of John Hopkins."

"Okay, then," said Booth as he resumed his place on the couch. "For a moment, I thought you were talking about Singh's partner."

The coffee was strong and black, the way I liked it. "Kellar," I said, emphasizing the last syllable. "And there's no such thing as a miracle drug. Not since penicillin."

"Aspirin," Booth offered.

"Kellar claims Isocolar is effective in a wide range of ages and across genders." I took a sip. "I've never heard of such a thing. Especially when you consider how many allergens are out there, including ones we don't know of."

"So the boy's too young for regular allergy shots and four months isn't enough to have it work, if it works at all," said Booth slowly. "How about Jordan Langford?"

"He's in the database. I checked as soon as I saw the transcript. But I don't know if it's the boy or the real Jordan Langford." I saw Booth's face darken. "You couldn't have known to ask for specifics," I said.

"I do now." He pulled out his cell and dialed. An angry voice squawked loud enough for me to hear. "It's Agent Booth, Dr. Singh. About the allergy shots you were giving the boy, what were they?" His eyes narrowed. "It's not a difficult question, Doctor. The allergy shots, were they purified allergens or not?" More squawks floated through the air. "Not allergens. Then what?"

Silence.

"Dr. Singh, I can have you picked up for further questioning if you wish," said Booth. "Call your lawyer or don't call your lawyer, I don't really care. You've already given us the medical records which means I'm free to ask you questions about them."

I strained to hear the answer.

"Isocolar," said Booth with a nod my way. "Was he part of the trials for the drug then?"

"Based on whose recommendation," I stage whispered.

"Based on your recommendation," said Booth. He listened. "As part of your consulting work?"

"Which company," I asked quietly.

"Parameda," said Booth. "Why the inaccurate records, Doctor? Anything else we should be rechecking?" His face was grim. "Yes, I imagine you do. You should make the call after you hang up because someone will be there to pick you up." It took only a few minutes to notify the Denver office. "I think that's my tenth one for the day," he said after he drained the rest of his coffee.

"We need to show Kellar the photo of Jordan Langford," I said.

"Why?"

"Because he says he knows all the research subjects by name. Which means he knows what they look like."

"Good thinking, Bones. Where can we find him?"

I handed him Kellar's business card.

"His hotel room? He gave you the number of his hotel room?"

"In case I wanted to talk to him about Isocolar."

"The man has a cell." Booth hauled me to my feet. "Not liking him already. But I think you want to talk to him about Isocolar, Bones." He saw my face. "Don't worry, I've got your back, partner."

"It's not my back he likes to look at."

"No," said Booth as he guided me out of my office. "Not liking him at all."


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Notes: **You don't have to read this chapter to understand the next. It's not a necessary part, more of an interlude, something I wanted to play with. And it's short.

* * *

**Two  
Chapter 11**

There is a point in the early morning when I know my brain will not function. Shortly after my thirtieth birthday, my body served notice that things would be different, that I needed to value my sleep more. Combined with multiple time zones and the emotional onslaught that came with dealing with the dead, I knew better than to abuse my limits. And yet, here we were. My watch glowed green as I checked the time. Three. My most sluggish hour. Beside me, Booth drove with the grimness of a man determined not to fall asleep. His window was almost completely down. Cool air whipped about the interior, around the gentle blue lights of the dashboard and tangled with my hair. City lights blurred together in a soothing rhythm. I closed my eyes and allowed my hair to beat against my face and catch in my lips.

From my self-imposed darkness, a small girl appeared. Her skin rich with melanin, her form slender, her stomach mildly distended from a recent prolonged hunger. She was beauty personified and I held my breath as she stepped forward with a natural grace.

"You missed me," she said, so quietly I had to strain to hear. "I was at the bottom of the well, the old one that the soldiers filled in." She picked her way out of sight, the fabric of her thin dress shifting in a non-existent breeze.

My nightmares had slowly morphed over the years into dreams. There was comfort to be had in reconstructed faces and rediscovered names.

"Almost there, Bones," said Booth.

I responded with an indistinct murmur. A few extra moments to rest. I had learned to snatch sleep where I could, even when my memories chose to keep me company.

An elderly woman, her face lined from years of sorrow and something beyond fear, hobbled slowly towards me. "I am too old for this," she said, her voice paper thin. "I wait and wait but no one comes. My babies wait to be uncovered. Come now, soon, so I may sleep." She stooped close and peered into my frozen face. "You must come. You are the only one who can help." Her hand motioned at me in delicate, fragile sweeps. Beyond her lay the lush mountains of her country, a rugged range of dense jungle that jeeps and machetes could barely penetrate. Yet war had slipped through and left her the soul survivor.

The car rocked, its suspension overwhelmed by the roughness of road that lay beneath. I didn't want to look. Not all memories were kind. Booth braked to a stop and turned off the ignition. A veil of fog consumed all sound. Silence beyond imagination surrounded us. He placed one hand on the door handle. I placed one on his arm. "No," I said, knowing full well what he would find. I remembered this moment. "Don't go." Vision or dream, I feared for him.

"If we don't, who will?" He removed my hand, gently, and stepped out. The white air swallowed him whole. Only small eddies hinted at his existence.

"Booth," I called and listened in vain for his reply.

One by one, people began to file past the hood of the SUV. Some danced, some trudged. Young, old. Their faces and clothes evoked different times and places. Over the years, I had named them all.

"I should've become a doctor," I heard Booth say. We had come to a stop. "Bones?"

I wanted nothing more than to make the transition to sleep.

"Bones," he said again, this time in my ear. He gave me a gentle shake by the shoulder. "Bones." His face filled my field of vision when I opened my eyes. "Bones?" His breath was stale from too much coffee. If I reached out, I could trace the lines of fatigue around his eyes.

I swept a slow gaze around me through the windshield and saw the glint of cars and the curious glances of passerbys. We were in front of the hotel. He had parked under a flood of bright, welcoming lights. "The valet's waiting," I said finally.

"He can wait," said Booth. He released me only when I pulled away. "Ready?"

"For Kellar? Not really. I'd rather go home." My admission took me by surprise. "No, I didn't mean that," I said when he reinserted the key into the ignition.

"It can wait until the morning," he said. "Normal time."

I leaned forward and covered his hand and keys with mine. My necklace struck his jacket as it swung forward. "No, Booth. We have to do this. Now." Beyond the line of shrubs, I thought I saw an elderly woman waiting.

"You sure?"

"This is what we do, Booth," I said and stepped out into the light.


	12. Chapter 12

**Two  
Chapter 12**

The night manager was reluctant to wake Kellar with a warning phone call. She indicated the clocks on the wall at one end of the counter. "Sir, Dr. Kellar requested a wake up call at five. Can't this wait another two hours?"

Booth slid his ID across the polished marble. "It would be nice if it could, Ms. Granger." He had read her brass name tag. "Obviously, we wouldn't be here unless we had to be." His smile, although tired, remained persuasive. He nodded at the phone. "Now, if you don't mind?"

We didn't need to hear Kellar to know his reaction. Granger's face told us all we needed to know. "He said he would be happy to meet you in his suite in fifteen minutes," she said after returning the phone to its receiver.

"Fifteen minutes? What's he going to do? Make us coffee?" Booth retrieved his ID and turned to me. "Let's go, Bones."

"Sir," said Granger. "It's just fifteen minutes."

"We'll be polite," Booth promised as he accepted a card for the elevator. The ride up to the concierge level made my ears pop. "Don't hit him," he said as we found the right room number. "At least, not until we're sure we don't need him." He rapped on the door twice.

"Come in." Kellar had managed to change into a polo shirt and khaki slacks. His hair was a semblance of order but, like Booth, he sported a shadow along his jawline. "This is an unexpected visit." His suite was old world charm as were his manners. He indicated towards the seating area. I took the arm chair, leaving the couch opposite as his only option as he joined me. "I'm pleased to see you again, Doctor, although it's a little too early for socializing."

"This isn't a social call," said Booth. He passed the Langford photos to Kellar and took point to one side. "I understand you know all your research subjects by name. Do you recognize this boy or his mother?"

Kellar frowned at the images. "Excuse me," he said as he donned his glasses. He examined the photos again. "I don't recognize either one of them."

"Not even the boy?" Booth watched him closely.

"Not even," said Kellar. He handed the photos to me. "I'm sorry, Dr. Brennan. I take it they have something to do with the Wilson case?" With his sleep interrupted, he was a more subdued version of his earlier self.

"How about these two?" Booth handed him Angela's drawings.

Kellar glanced at them, then passed them back. "No," he said. "I don't recognize them either."

"Are you sure?" I laid the drawings side by side on the coffee table and flipped them upside down for him to see properly. "A doctor in Denver placed this boy on Isocolar. There's no way he could have done that without your knowledge."

"We haven't distributed Isocolar to anyone."

"You said you knew all the research subjects by name," I said. "Which means you know their faces. All shots have to be injected under your supervision or with your permission. You should be able to account for each one. This boy." I pointed at the picture. "He was receiving Isocolar in Denver from a Dr. Patrick Singh. You're based in Boston. If you haven't sent the drug out to anyone, how do you explain the boy's treatment?"

"I can't because it's impossible. This Dr. Singh couldn't have been giving Isocolar," said Kellar. His face was unreadable. "And I do know all the names of my subjects. All three hundred of them. I have an excellent memory, Dr. Brennan. All of them are from Boston. The Wilsons, as you know, were the sole exception and they came to me. I'm very good at getting grants, Doctor, but even I don't have the funds to pay for air fare and hotels for that many subjects. That boy and that woman have never been in my lab."

"Do you know Dr. Singh?" asked Booth.

"No."

"Your circle of doctor friends must be pretty big," said Booth. "You're telling us you don't know any doctors by the name of Singh?"

Kellar sighed. "I know a few, but none from Denver." His glance swept from Booth to me. "As for the supply of Isocolar, you'll have to check with my assistants. They're responsible for the actual administration of injections. If there are any discrepancies, they should know. But there's no way Isocolar was sent to this Dr. Singh. He couldn't possibly have known anything about it. We haven't done any presentations or sent out any information pamphlets. We're not allowed to. It's not a federally regulated drug. Not yet."

"Not ever if we find out differently," said Booth. "So you don't know a Dr. Patrick Singh?"

"No. He's not on our list of referring practitioners."

"We'll need a copy of that list."

"I'll be sure to have one sent to you as soon as my office opens," said Kellar.

"You know, I spoke to Dr. Singh myself," said Booth. "He mentioned Isocolar by name."

"I don't know how that's possible. I'm telling you, our subjects always came to us. Ask Dr. Brennan. She's seen our findings. Our subject pool was designed to meet statistical criteria for age and for gender. Geography wasn't a variable we needed to control for."

"Which explains why it isn't mentioned in your report," I said. "He's right. Age and gender are the most important variables."

"What about the implementation?" Booth looked to me for confirmation.

"It's true that grad students are the ones who usually implement a research project and collect the data. The lead investigator lays the groundwork, finds the funding and does the analysis. Performs quality control and supervises. I do that myself at the Jeffersonian."

"Gordon Siller and Marnie Pullman are my assistants," said Kellar. "They're each working on a combined Ph.D. and medical degree program."

"You did that," I noted. I had looked up his bio after our initial meeting.

"They're young and they're ambitious," said Kellar. "I remember being that way."

"You've given up on your ambitions?" Booth asked.

"Do I look like I've stopped breathing?"

"They must not get much sleep."

"Sleep comes later," said Kellar. He made a sweeping gesture of the room that ended at me. "Then come the perks."

I regarded his extended wrist thoughtfully. The temptation to break it was strong.

"Later, Bones," said Booth. He didn't miss much.

"I'm sorry," said Kellar. "But are we done here? I have an early round of golf scheduled and I'd like to be at my best for it."

"Wouldn't want you to miss that," said Booth. He indicated the door with a single nod of his head. I rose to my feet.

"It's a business meeting," said Kellar. "And I resent your implication."

"About golf? It's a great game," said Booth. He stepped aside to let me pass. "But we have four bodies and two missing persons. So far, Isocolar is one of our strongest leads. For a man who has a lot at stake, you don't seem very concerned."

"I'm a doctor, not an FBI agent," said Kellar. "I'm sorry about those people, but my job is to help children with severe allergies. What's so wrong with that?"

I opened the door.

"Nothing. But two children are dead." Booth followed me out into the hallway. "I think you'll agree there's plenty wrong about that."

"Of course." Kellar stifled a yawn. "Perhaps a more civilized hour if we need to do this again?"

"Will we?" Booth turned back abruptly. "Need to do this again?"

The doctor made a sound of irritation. "Agent Booth, I'll be happy to cooperate with you in whatever way I can. I only meant it would be nice to get a full night's sleep but, of course, not when lives are obviously at stake. Good night, Dr. Brennan. Or is it good morning?"

Neither mattered to me.

"The man's an idiot," said Booth after the elevator doors closed. "If this Isocolar's so great, what's he doing here?"

"I know an inorganic chemist," I said. "I sent him the molecular data after I got the research report. Are we going to Boston?"

"We're each going home," said Booth. "I'll notify the Boston office about the grad students. They'll sweep the lab for paperwork and send it all to us."

"But what if they miss something medical?"

"Two words, Bones. Simultaneous transcription." He led the way to the lobby doors. "We can get a few hours of sleep and be ready to do the followup by the time they fax it in."

It turned out to be a little more complicated than that.


End file.
